


What we're made of

by china_shop



Series: Caffrey/Jones future!fic [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Established Relationship, Fic, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is detained by museum security guards. Clinton comes to the rescue. / Sequel to "Open Your Eyes, You Can Fly"</p>
            </blockquote>





	What we're made of

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mergatrude for beta. <3

Clinton got to the museum before the police arrived. It was just after six, already dark and the parking lot was empty, so he left his car at the bottom of the front steps and hurried to the door, trying to look calm and authoritative. He flashed his badge, and an armed security guard let him into the large, marble-floored foyer.

Two other guards were standing near the elevator with Neal. One had his gun in his hand, lowered. Neal was holding his hat and smiling, apparently doing his best to charm his way out of their clutches, but the guards were talking to each other. Neither paid much attention when he spread his hands and answered one of their questions.

Clinton strode across, met Neal's eye for a fraction of a second and showed his badge to the guards. "Agent Jones, FBI. Heard you have a situation. What's going on?"

"There was a portrait stolen from the Muller Collection upstairs two days ago," said one of the guards. "Worth nearly a million bucks, and then today we find this guy, Caffrey, a known art thief, lurking around the third floor."

"I recognized him from the picture on our Wall of Crooks," said the other guard, holstering his gun. He stuck his thumbs in his belt and rocked onto his heels. "Figured he'd come back to gloat."

"We're holding him on suspicion until the cops get here," finished the first guard.

Clinton looked at Neal, who seemed to have given up on charm now reinforcements had arrived. He looked subdued, apparently resigned to the indignity of being taken for a thief foolish enough to return to the scene of his own crime. His gaze was bland and impersonal. Clinton wanted to peel back the defenses to find the real Neal and hug the hell out of him, but that wouldn't get them out of here, so instead he nodded seriously at the guards' report and said, "He didn't do it."

"How do you know?" The second guard stuck his chin out.

 _Because he's my boyfriend and I trust him._ Clinton swallowed the claim. He'd lose all credibility if he said that; no one listened to a suspect's partner. Better to name drop, or they'd be here all night. "I know because that's Neal Caffrey, and he's a consultant to Special Agent Peter Burke of the FBI's White Collar unit. Caffrey knows if he pulled a stunt like this, Agent Burke would kick his ass."

The guards exchanged doubtful glances.

Clinton pulled out his phone. He called Peter and filled him in. "Did he do it?" asked Peter.

"No," said Clinton. He knew Peter had to ask, but it still pissed him off. He kept his face and tone impassive.

"Okay," said Peter. "I should never have put his picture in the paper like that. It made him a target for every police officer and security guard with a memory for faces. Put the guard on."

Clinton handed the phone to the first guard, who repeated the story in response to Peter's questions. The guard listened a minute. "It was Monday. Yeah, but—No, we think he came back tonight to gloat. No, sir." He frowned at the floor, waiting for a while.

Clinton looked at Neal, aloof even now he was nearly extricated from the situation.

"Yeah," said the guard. "Yeah, okay. Thank you, sir." He hung up and gave Clinton back his phone.

"What did he say?" asked the other guard.

The first guard huffed. "He called Caffrey's landlady. Caffrey has an alibi for Monday. He didn't do it."

"Yeah, but you know what?" said Clinton, deciding to move things along. "We can probably help you figure out who did." He gave them his business card. "Call me on this number tomorrow morning, and I'll bring a team in to investigate." Really, if he were going to take on the case, he should review the facts and the scene now, but his priority was getting Neal out of there, and hell, the trail was already two days cold. Another twelve hours wouldn't make much difference.

"I guess you can go," the first guard told Neal, grudgingly. "Sorry for the inconvenience."

"No problem." Neal gave them a nod and followed Clinton outside.

Clinton waited till they were halfway down the steps. "Hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine," said Neal, distant as the moon.

Clinton unlocked the car. "Let's get you out of here."

He wasn't sure what was going on, why Neal was so brittle. Peter wasn't wrong about the effect of that front page mug shot during the pink diamond heist: Neal had been through this same misunderstanding a dozen times over the years. But he was usually gracious about it, even pleased to be recognized. Tonight, was different. Clinton had only found out what was going on by chance; he'd called and, noticing Neal's uncharacteristic restraint, pressed him to say why he was late meeting Clinton for their parcheesi date with June and Mozzie.

Neal slid into the car, and Clinton started driving them to June's place. "I wanted to tell them," he said, after they'd traveled a few blocks in silence.

Neal looked down at the hat on his lap. "It's doesn't matter."

"Neal, I wanted to say you're my boyfriend and I trust you, and that's how I know you didn't do it." Clinton pulled over by the park and turned off the engine. "But the second I said 'boyfriend', they would've stopped listening to me."

"I know," said Neal. "It's fine. Really." He shot Clinton a fake smile and glanced at a convenience store across the road. "It's fine. Wait here."

He jay-walked across the road, his movements jerky and remote, and Clinton got out of the car and leaned against it, watching his breath form white puffs in the winter air, waiting for Neal, trying to figure him out. Maybe he was feeling vulnerable now he couldn't automatically count on the FBI and Peter having his back. He'd hated the tracker, but at least it had provided a convenient alibi on several occasions.

Neal came out of the store and, in the glare of the white fluorescents, tapped a cigarette out of a fresh pack and lit it with a plastic lighter. He exhaled a long thin stream of smoke and came back to the car, moving more easily. He sent Clinton an oblique look and went to the passenger side, to the sidewalk, where he leaned against the car.

Clinton skirted the car to follow him. He hadn't seen Neal smoke since his first case with the Bureau—the Dutchman—and then it had been a cover so he could talk to Mozzie. Something wasn't right. "You know you can always call me," Clinton tried. "No matter what."

Neal's gaze was dark and expressionless. "You shouldn't have to deal with this stuff."

"Like what?" said Clinton. "Like helping you out when you're in trouble?"

"Like rescuing your boyfriend from armed guards," snapped Neal. He took another drag on his cigarette. "I just keep—"

He bit off the rest of the thought, and Clinton edged closer, wanting to touch him, to break through his mood and re-establish their usual easy connection. "What?"

"Nothing." Neal hunched his shoulders. "It's cold. We should get going." But he didn't move, and he was turning the cigarette pack over in his hand as if he planned to smoke his way through the lot of them.

Clinton studied his profile. His eyes were shadowed by the brim of his hat, but his jaw was a strong clean line. "Neal?"

Neal sighed heavily and looked up at the bare winter trees, glittering with frost, haloed by streetlights. "Remember that night we had dinner with Peter and Elizabeth," he said quietly, "and there was the jewelry store break-in, and you up and vanished without a word?"

"I remember." That night had turned everything around. It was how they'd got here. "What about it?"

The corner of Neal's mouth turned down. A car passed, its engine loud in the crisp night air, and then there was just the usual city soundscape of traffic punctuated by a distant car alarm. "I thought you left because you'd suddenly remembered I have a—less than reputable past."

"Because you used to be a criminal." Clinton frowned. He remembered Peter had needled Neal about an impressionist exhibition over dinner, but it had been nothing really. Definitely not enough to make Neal reach that conclusion unless he was already thinking along those lines.

Neal looked sideways at him. "That or because I'm a guy. One or the other."

"Hey," said Clinton. "I know who you are. I know what you've done—the bad stuff and the good. And I sure know you're a guy."

"I know." Neal sounded calmer now, like he'd got a secret off a chest. Clinton didn't really understand—it wasn't like Neal's past had ever been in doubt—but he didn't question it either, relieved they were somewhere in the vicinity of normal. As if to confirm that, Neal gave him a smile, halfway between wistful and sheepish. "I just wish sometimes, you know?"

Clinton smiled back. He reached out and plucked the cigarette from Neal's hand, took a pull on it and gave it back. He hadn't smoked in years, and the dry bitter headrush was nostalgic. He held his breath until his vision swam and then released it, mingled smoke and condensation. "We're not kids," he said. "We've both got history."

Neal's lips curved around the shrinking stub of his cigarette, and the last of the tension eased from his shoulders. He shoved the cigarette pack into his pocket. "You're a good guy."

"I'm okay," Clinton told him. Neal flicked the filter into the gutter, and Clinton crowded him against the car and kissed him tenderly, savoring the smoky nicotine buzz. "We're both okay."

Neal's hands settled on his waist. Clinton could feel them through his coat. "If you could make a wish," said Neal.

"If I could?" Clinton pulled back and saw warmth reflected in Neal's eyes—warmth and promise. This was Neal Caffrey, who could perform minor and illegal miracles if he wanted to, but who instead chose to be with him. This was Neal, and he was complicated and unexpected, but Clinton trusted him, through and through. Clinton smiled and bent his head forward to murmur in Neal's ear, feeling Neal's breath on his cheek, the heat of his body, "What makes you think I haven't made a wish already? Maybe I did. Maybe I wished for you."


End file.
